Backed Into the Corner
by NoShipSherlock
Summary: Sherlock shows up drunk on Molly's doorstep in the middle of the night. Are his feelings for her real, or is he just under the influence? Slightly out of character drunk Sherlock.


Molly woke out of a dead sleep to the sound of someone hammering on her door followed by a familiar deep voice shouting, "Molly! Molly Hooper!"

Alarmed, she grabbed her robe and rushed to silence the pounding. She unlocked the door and opened it to find one Sherlock Holmes standing in the hallway outside her flat. _Swaying_ , was actually more accurate.

"Sherlock? What's wrong? Are you ill?"

A big grin broke over his face, "You're home! Splendid!"

"Of course I'm home! It's nearly one o'clock in the morning. Here, get inside before you wake the whole building," she said, pulling him into her flat. "What's wrong with you?" she asked, narrowing her eyes. "Are you high?"

"No, no, no, no. 'Course not. Haven't used drugs in a long time. I believe that I am, however, quite drunk," he slurred.

"Drunk? And you thought it would be a good idea to visit me in the middle of the night?"

"I don't like to be alone when I'm drunk. Thought perhaps you'd keep me company," he said brightly, clapping her on the shoulders.

"Where's John?" she asked. _What in bloody hell was happening?_ she thought to herself. _Sherlock Holmes, drunk on her doorstep in the middle of the night_. _This was odd even for him._

"John's away. Dublin, I think."

"And that's why you got drunk? Because John isn't home?"

"What? No, I was with Grant…Gavin…Oh, what is his name?"

"Who?"

"You know, th' Detective Inspector," he said waving his hands in the air.

Rolling her eyes, Molly said, "It's Greg, Sherlock. Greg Lestrade."

"Yesss! That's it! Wait, is it?"

"Yes, his name is Greg," she said deliberately. "What were you doing out with Lestrade?" She was going to _kill_ Lestrade.

"He wanted to celebrate the big case I helped break. Insisted I go to the pub with half of Scotland Yard. Practically dragged me there. We drank scotch 'til last call. Then, well, obviously, John isn't home an' I don' like to be alone when I'm drunk, so I came here."

Molly smiled in spite of being miffed at being pulled out of her warm bed by the intoxicated detective. "I see. And just how many times have you been drunk?"

"Oh, not that many I s'pose," he said with another dismissive wave of his hand. "John's stag night, of course. Maybe a few times before that. Tried drinking before I used drugs, but it just wasn't for me. Dulls the senses, you know," he said with a wink.

"Okay," She said with a nervous smile. "Well, I suppose I can't turn you out like this. Let's have a seat on the sofa. I'll make some tea."

"Oh, Molly! I don't want any tea!" he said, with a happy grin plastered on his face.

"No? You should certainly drink something besides Scotch or you'll be sorry in the morning."

They were still standing near the doorway. Sherlock's grin vanished. He was staring at her intently. He put his hands on her arms and half staggered into her, forcing her back against the wall. He had her backed into the corner behind the door, one hand on the wall above her head, the other holding her arm, intense blue eyes holding her gaze. Was there a hint of something dangerous there? For one split second, she felt a thread of fear creep down her spine. Though lanky, the detective took good care of himself. He was deceptively strong and had put quite a few criminals in the hospital. He could easily overpower her if he wanted. Her heartbeat quickened at the thought, but then, reason returned. Drunk or not, this was Sherlock. Sherlock would never, ever physically harm her. Emotionally was a different story, though she knew in her heart he never intended to hurt her with the callous words he sometimes let slip.

He must have seen the brief look of unease that crossed her face for his eyes softened and he stroked her cheek gently with his finger. She closed her eyes and began to say, "Look, Sherlock…" when he kissed her. Her eyes flew open in surprise as his warm lips pressed against hers, faint with the taste of scotch and tobacco. She hesitated, then relented, closing her eyes and kissing him back. He cupped the back of her head with one hand and placed the other on her breast. She stood for a moment hands dumbly at her sides, then clasped them around his back and pulled him closer. "Molly," he murmured.

 _Oh my God_ , she was thinking, _I'm kissing Sherlock Holmes!_ She found herself lost in the moment, enjoying the feel of his hips pressed close to hers, his hand in her hair, the feel of his taut back muscles beneath her fingers. But, a little voice in her head started to make itself heard. _We shouldn't be doing this. He's not himself._  
"Shut up," she said to the voice.

"What?" Sherlock asked, pulling back, confused.

"Oh, God. Sorry. Did I say that out loud?" _Why was she stopping this? She was_ kissing _Sherlock! No, he was kissing her! But it was wrong._ She would never have forgiven him if he'd taken advantage of her had the roles been reversed. She couldn't allow this to continue no matter how much she was enjoying it. His sober mind might feel differently about this kiss. His inhibitions were compromised. What if he felt differently about her when his brain was operating under its full faculties? They had to stop.

Before she lost herself completely to this man on whom she'd had a crush for years, she lowered her head, put her hands on his chest, and sighed. "Sherlock, we can't do this. Not like this."

He kissed her cheek, then her nose, then nuzzled her neck. "But, it's so nice, isn't it? We can do this. Why can't we do this?"

"You're the genius. I think you know why. Because, you're not thinking clearly. Because you might not remember any of this tomorrow. Because what you're feeling now, might not be what you'd really feel for me if you were sober. We…we don't want to do something that would hurt our friendship. Something we'd both regret."

He seemed to consider this for a moment. "I guess you're right. I'm sorry," he murmured, resting his chin on top of her head. He kissed the top of her head then took a step back, and appeared to be trying to focus on her. He laughed softly as he put a hand to his forehead and said, "Molly Hooper, you make my head spin."

"I think that's the alcohol," she said with a relieved smile. "How about you sit down now, okay?" Molly guided him to her sofa. She brought him a glass of water and two paracetamol tablets. "Here, you'd better take these and make sure you drink all your water."  
He squinted at the pills in her hand but took them with the water. He leaned his head back against the sofa.

"Are you feeling sick?" she asked.

"No, just a bit dizzy. I'll be fine."

She sat next to him and said, "Why don't you lie down? You should get some sleep. I'll sit with you for a while."

He looked at her with a slightly unfocused gaze, then did as she'd suggested and lay down, nestling his head in her lap. He was tense at first but then she felt him relax as she stroked his dark curls, massaging his scalp and shoulders.

"Feels good," he muttered softly. She continued running her fingers through his hair, growing drowsy herself, until she felt his body sink down in the dead weight of a deep sleep.

She grabbed a pillow from behind her back and placed it under his head as she quietly maneuvered free. She covered him with a blanket and left a full glass of water on the table in front of him in case he woke up. Back in her warm bed, she glanced at the clock. Nearly three AM. She sighed knowing she would most likely be awake again in a few hours. Molly expected to lie awake, staring into the dark pondering all that had happened, but she drifted off until the early light of dawn woke her at seven.

She used the bathroom then padded quietly to the kitchen to make some coffee and toast for her unexpected late night guest. She stole a glance at the sleeping form on her sofa. He looked so different, so vulnerable in sleep. She smiled and went back to making breakfast. She heard a soft grunt and saw Sherlock stretch and open his eyes. He looked confused for just a moment, until recognition of his surroundings dawned on his face. He sat up slowly and passed a hand over his face.

"Morning, Sherlock. You…um…want some coffee? Or, I can make tea?"

He cleared his throat, looking somewhat uneasy, "Molly. I should…I owe you…," he began, seemingly meaning to brush off her offer but then changing his mind. "Umm…coffee sounds great. Could I use your…?"

"Oh. Yes! Of course. Second door on the right."

"Black, two sugars," she said, handing him a mug when he had returned from the loo.

"You remembered," he said, taking a sip.

"Surprised?"

"No. Not really. You're more observant than most people," he said.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, buttering some toast at the counter.

"I must admit, I'm a bit embarrassed."

"Err…well, what I meant is, do you have a hangover? Do you need more paracetamol? "

"No. Slight headache. I'll be fine. Listen, Molly…."

"Sherlock, you don't have to say anything."

"Yes, I do. I owe you an apology for my behavior, and my gratitude for taking care of the very drunk and very stupid man who turned up on your doorstep last night."

Molly took a bite of toast and said, "Really, you don't owe me an apology and I was glad I could be there for you. Well, at least after I got over my initial aggravation of being woken up at 1 AM."

"Again, sorry about that," he stammered, not quite meeting her eyes.

"Relax. It was just a joke. I'm not angry."

Sherlock took a deep breath and placed his empty mug on the coffee table. "You're not? You've every right to be. Believe me, most people would have told me to piss off and kicked my sorry arse to the curb."

"Oh, now that's not true. Well, maybe Anderson. But not me."

He stood in front of her, smiling. "I think I've caused you enough trouble. I'll be going. Cases to solve. Criminals to catch."

"Right. Well, take it easy today, okay? So…erm…still friends?"

"Always, Molly Hooper," he said, lifting her chin with his finger. Then he was pulling on his coat and heading for the door. "See you at Bart's?"

"Okay. Oh! Remember, I have those severed fingers for are you, if you still want them."

"Yes, I still want them. And, Molly, I'll always remember."

END


End file.
